


Not a Great Romancer

by Chokopoppo



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: M/M, PWP, Valve Oral (Transformers)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-18 07:07:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21507166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chokopoppo/pseuds/Chokopoppo
Summary: Ratchet's gotten a lot of "no"s from Orion Pax. He kind of figured the matrix would be the final nail in the coffin, not the last, long-time-coming piece to a puzzle he's ready to stop working on.An AU where Primes DO party. Or, at the very least, hang.
Relationships: Optimus Prime/Ratchet
Comments: 36
Kudos: 253





	Not a Great Romancer

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just sick and tired of "oh the matrix got between our LOVE" optiratch fics, okay?? MAYbe the matrix is full of SLUTS!!!!!
> 
> Not that I don't love the sexual tension of the matrix keeping Optimus and Ratchet apart, but I wanted to write a fic where it helps, kind of. Is this a bad look for my brand? Eh, whatever. If you found this through one of my much-more-serious current projects: I'm so sorry.
> 
> This is also the first fic I ever wrote while 100% blitzed! Sober-me is my beta, I love her, I owe her the world, I'm going to name my first child after her. Anyway, you're not here for me, you're here for the fucking. Get on down there. Scroll down a little. I believe in you.
> 
> Fic title is text from Cole Porter's Anything Goes.

Ratchet is cutting geodes, actually. When it happens.

They’ve known, all of them. About the matrix. About the way it changes people. The way it changed Zeta Prime. he went from one of those kind, informal, garden-planting souls to severe admiral material overnight. Or over-transformation, whatever you want to call it. Ratchet’s been studying the matrix, physiologically—the way it affects mechs, the way it changes their energon processing and whatever else. It fucks you up, the whole thing. The whole body—he wanted to be ready, okay? He wanted to be ready. Megatronus or Orion, it didn’t matter to him. One of them was going to change, and whoever it was was going to comm him that afternoon and tell him about how they needed him now, more than ever. 

And he wanted to be ready for the way it changes _mechs._ How much easier it probably wouldn’t make anything, ha, ha. Ratchet _hangs._ Megatronus and Orion can both _hang_ with the best of them (for example: Ratchet), but a matrix-infused prime is not a _best friend_ who _hangs,_ he’s a stoic goodboy with a big head, and nothing turns Ratchet off faster. You know the type. That “brush your denta after lunch to make sure you’re doing it three times a day” look, the kinds of mechs who polish their windshield for no reason at all except it looks shinier and _tidiness = goodness,_ that kind of crap.

Anyway, uh, long story short, he figured the matrix would goodboy up his best friends, and then he’d grin and bear it and help them out for a while, and then they’d figure his bad habits and seasonal-pass valve would rub off on them and start making distance, and blah blah blah, and he’d get tired of the Cybertron-First attitude and get better work elsewhere _anyway_ , um. And then he’s cutting geodes to distill, and that’s where he is in his apartment when the door breaks in half.

“What the _fuck,”_ he says, and considers swearing more except he sees Orion stumble in, all wild-eyes and newly broad shoulders and stumbling, coltish insecurity. 

“I’m so, sorry,” Orion says, “I swear I really just tried to open the door, I didn’t think it would _snap_ like that?”

“It’s okay, I didn’t mean to, uh, curse,” Ratchet says, “are you okay?”

Orion frowns at him, grabbing a wall to steady himself. “Since when do you apologize for cursing?” He asks. “You do it all the time. You’ll wear your jaw struts out if you double-up your word budget like that.”

“I just—uh,” Ratchet says, “figured you wouldn’t? Like that kind of thing anymore? Er, that it would bother you now. With the. With the thing.” He realizes he’s wringing his hands and lets go of both of them awkwardly. “How did the ceremony—“

“I like _every_ kind of thing now,” Orion says, and then, “no, wait, I didn’t mean to talk over you, I—I’m so sorry, my processor is all kinds of messed up—“

“It’s—it’s okay, Orion,” Ratchet says, and then, “fuck. Shit. I mean, it’s okay—Or—Orionus? What are we working with, here? What should I call you?”

“Optimus,” Orion says, “Optimus Prime. After the last of the primes to be absorbed by the matrix, it’s all very spiritual, um, this is _not_ what I came over here to talk to you about?”

“Optimus,” Ratchet says, intending to get the foreign name out of his mouth as quickly as possible and throw it on the ground between them. And he wants to go on—to tell Orion-us, Optimus, that he’s as welcome here as he’s always been, and to offer him engex and a seat on the couch and for it to be weird and wrong and the start of a whole new kind of fucked up nothing-relationship—but Orion _visibly_ shudders when he says it, and the words all dry up in Ratchet’s mouth.

“Ratchet,” he says back, “I’m done with playing around.”

Ratchet has just enough time to pause, process this, and start figuring his way around a “fuck are you talking about” when Orion fucking _surges_ at him, grabs him by the hips and throws him against the kitchen counter. The geodes go flying. Orion hits Ratchet in the face with his brand-new battle-mask and immediately jerks back.

_“Fuck,”_ Ratchet yelps in pain, and grabs at his noseplate. Orion curses.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to knock you like that,” he says, “hang on, I can, uh, transform this off.”

“Why do you need to transform it off? Is it uncomfortable or—“ Ratchet asks, and then gets interrupted by Optimus kissing him, hard and deep and invasive.

And it’s not—it’s not like Megatronus, or Ironhide, when they’re trying to show him they’re bigger or tougher or stronger than he is. And it’s not like he doesn’t like that. Ratchet gets his knees apart for any kind of show-of-force, anyone else pinning his wrists together and making him give up his control and just fucking _take_ it for once. But that’s not what this is. This is deeper, it’s _intimate,_ it’s that fucked up kind of vulnerable that forces him to open himself up. It’s just glossa in his mouth, but Ratchet’s hands go all trembly and he feels like he’s being—it’s like—it’s like his self is getting tonguefucked, it’s like being reached inside. He’s gone wet all over. He feels numb.

Numb except he can feel Optimus’ body all over him, blazing and blasting heat, and wet lips and there’s a gasping and a whimpering noise from one of them. Primus knows who’s making it. Statistically, it’s probably Ratchet, given the fact that it’s embarrassing and that’s sort of how his life’s going these days. There are hands on him. On his back.

He gets a hand on Optimus’ chassis, ostensibly to push him back and remind him about who he is and what he owes to his, to his planet and to his people, but what comes out is “don’t fuck with me, Orion, I don’t have time to—“ before Orion is groaning and kissing him again. It’s there and then it’s pulling back, all at once, nothing _on_ Ratchet except that gaze which is so much more intense, now, so much bluer. There’s an arm on either side of him, pinning him to the counter.

“I’m not fucking with anything,” Orion says, far too seriously, “I’m tired of cringing and bowing and scraping. The knowledge of the ancients chose me, Ratchet. It chose _me._ It chose what I am and what I was, and I know—I mean, I know so much _weird shit,_ Ratch, it’s so much. Do you know how much a bag of diamond sand used to cost before we started harvesting Jyspecht Meteor Showers? I know _exactly_ how much it cost, and it wasn’t _worth_ it, Ratchet! Everyone knew it! I can tell you down to the _penny_ and they still, they still chose _me!_ I thought—I spent so _long,_ so much time _cringing_ and _worrying_ and weighing the pros and the cons of _wanting_ versus _earning_ and I just—I wasted so much _time!”_

“What are you— _talking_ about,” Ratchet says, because he got a college education and even that isn’t helping him, “Orion, please, you don’t—just—I’m your friend, you can fumble, it’s just—let’s work through it, okay? I’ll help you figure out what you, what you _want,_ what you _mean._ You don’t have to, to worry about me. I won’t judge you, I—“

“I don’t need help sorting my feelings,” Orion says, staring at him seriously, “I’m an archivist. I have meticulously detailed files separating my personal journal out on my home datacase. I have a tag for you. It’s orange on the tab for visual distinction.”

“I, what is, what,” Ratchet says, “Orion, I don’t _understand._ Help me understand.”

“Oh, I’m going to help you understand,” Orion says, and then he grabs Ratchet by the hips and _lifts._

There’s a clattering, things going this way or that way, geodes flying off the counter and bouncing off the floor, and Ratchet’s back hits the backsplash, his body twisted awkwardly, legs akimbo. Cool air blasts out of a vent over the seams of his modesty panel, and Ratchet—party-ambulance Ratchet, who does lines off Pharma’s windshield and gets bent over desks in his teacher’s offices for fun—goes all shivery and wet. Lubricant, sticky like the first wave after dry heat always is, dribbles between the plating and the lips of his valve.

“Orion,” he says, because he can’t think of anything else.

“Ratchet,” Orion says, and licks up the central transformation seam, picking up the first beads of fluid, and that’s all it takes. His panel transforms away and Ratchet cries out, squirming back against the counter.

“Orion!” He gasps, and then _yelps_ as the wet _flat_ of Orion’s tongue presses against his valve, molding against the shape of him, textured and firm, “Orion, you—Op-Optimus, what are—“

“Oh _fuck,”_ Orion moans, buries his lips against the wet folds of Ratchet’s valve and _sucks_ against him before releasing the protoflesh with a _smack,_ “oh Primus, _Ratchet,_ it’s like being _known,_ it’s like—“

“Oh my god oh my god,” Ratchet says, hazy and shuddering, “get your _fucking_ glossa inside of me—“

“Call me Optimus again,” he murmurs, “the way you say it, I feel _known,_ it’s like—“

“Optimus, _fuck_ me,” Ratchet snaps, and grabs him by the fin and _drags_ his stupid mouth back to his anterior node. Optimus’ optics, blown wide, stare up at his face. His lips, also blown wide, close around him, glossa darting back and forth over the hypersensitive raised skin. He moans, the vibrations rioting right up through Ratchet’s spinal strut and all over his shoulders, all down his body.

Ratchet throws his head back and moans, openmouthed, unabashed, rocks his hips up into Optimus’ mouth until the glossa fumbles deeper into him. It prods, experimentally, and then shoves its way through the first tight ring of calipers, hot and uneven and wet. 

“Primus,” Ratchet mutters, his processor looking for fantasies and finding his database completely blank. He can’t figure out how to pretend anything else is happening—there isn’t anything that could be better than this. Maybe if he was on a couch or something, instead of his kitchen counter. _Take me to bed,_ he decides to say, optical connectors fluttering as he feels Orion’s _fingers_ on the lips of his valve, pulling them apart for better access. He shivers with the sudden cold of exposed air.

“Why are you _doing_ this,” he says instead, because somewhere between processor and mouth there’s some kind of filter that makes him be an asshole, “is it—increased libido, or something, from the matrix? Are you—are you burning off steam?”

It’s a stupid thing to say for a couple reasons. 1: It sounds like Ratchet isn’t enjoying it and/or wants to stop, which he absolutely doesn’t. 2: It’s just so clinical and sexless. _Increased libido,_ what is he, some kind of conjunx councillor double-checking on routine fluid maintenance? 3: It kind of makes _Orion_ seem like the asshole, when he’s the one on his knees, slurping up Ratchet’s valve like energon in a wasteland, like he’s trying to drink Ratchet just to survive. 

Orion, apparently, doesn’t notice _any_ of these problems. With some effort, he disentangles his lips from Ratchet’s, lubricant brightly colored and sticky coating him from nose to chin. His tongue is just kind of sitting on top of his lower lip, just _barely_ extended like it’s searching for something just out of its reach. His gaze flicks up to Ratchet’s face.

“There’s no more stopping me,” he says urgently, his engine starting to audibly clatter inside him, “I was the only one who ever stopped me, and now the me that I am is stronger than the me that I was, I—I _know_ now, I _know_ what I was throwing away every time you asked me to stay and I said ‘no’. I thought _wanting_ was _weakness,_ but Ratchet, they’re all inside me now.” He grasps at his chassis, fingers running thoughtlessly over the position of the matrix. The lubricant on his fingers, still wet from dipping into Ratchet’s valve, streaks over his windshield. “They want me to _want,_ anything that strums desire needs to be chased. There’s nothing pure about celibacy or denial when _desire_ to protect our people and our planet is what makes a _prime.”_ He blinks, seriously. “Ratchet, the ancients interfaced _so much.”_

It catches him by surprise, the _seriousness_ of it all, that Ratchet really probably _shouldn’t_ start laughing? But he does, it stumbles its way out of his mouth before he can clap a hand over it. It’s just so fucking _absurd,_ all of it, the reverence and the—yes, that Primacy Goodboy Protector Of Planet attitude, the same shit Zeta used to go on the telescreens and broadcast worldwide—coming out of his best friend’s _lubricant-wet mouth_ as Ratchet’s anterior node glows so brightly it’s reflecting in the liquid. 

“It’s true!” Orion says, maybe misinterpreting the laughter, “Ratchet, they’re constantly interfacing with _each other,_ inside the matrix. It’s fucking _wild._ They’re just constantly horny and, and I have all of their _knowledge_ and, I mean, I’ve never _done_ this before but it seems like I’m doing _really_ good?”

“I was so worried,” Ratchet says, still laughing, “I thought—I thought you were going to _change,_ but you’re still just you, aren’t you? Just all kind of jumbled up?”

“I’m me,” Orion says firmly, “but now I’m Optimus Prime.”

“Optimus,” Ratchet sighs, and Optimus’ optics offline, he shudders palpably. He’s going to get used to that. He’s going to have to, if the way Optimus’ spike is emerging is an indication of something. “You’re you, but now you eat pussy.”

Optimus’ optics snap into full illumination. “Now I eat _so_ much pussy,” he says firmly, like it’s a campaign slogan, “starting with yours.”

“Wait! On a bed or something, _please,”_ Ratchet says, pressing a palm against Optimus’ forehelm as he leans back in, “my back can’t take this kind of abuse. I’m older than you, you know.”

“I know everything about you,” Optimus says, “except what you look like when you overload.”

“You do _not_ know _everything—“_ Ratchet is saying, and then gives a _woah!_ As Optimus grabs him by the midsection, and effortlessly throws him over a shoulder.

“You’re right,” Optimus says, as Ratchet yelps and protests. He’s moving for the couch. “But I plan on learning everything else.”


End file.
